Rockhammer 40,000
by organicorbust
Summary: In the grim dark future of the 42nd millennium, there is only war and gnarly guitar solos. The daemon primarch Fulgrim is planning something big, and all of his brothers are invited.
1. Chapter 1: Veteran of the Psychic Wars

Rockhammer 40,000

"I will not be made a mockery of by you, Ahriman. You will leave my planet. Now." Magnus said, his blind eyes gazing at Ahriman in pure hatred.

"Father, I assure you. This is a completely serious matter." replied the disgraced sorceror.

Magnus stood from his throne of floating crystal, iridescent wings gracefully lowering him to the ground. He grabbed the data-slate from Ahriman's hand, his mind's eye watching a vid-capture of his serpentine brother. His red brow furrowed.

"This...is not a joke." Magnus said in bewilderment. "He is actually doing this."

"Yes, father. I have spoken with Fulgrim personally. My sorcery detected no lies, no tricks, no ill will wished upon you or any of your sons. He means exactly what he says." Ahriman responded. "If I were not absolutely certain that an event this monumentous would give birth to a new Eye of Terror, I would not be standing here before you."

Magnus's talons clacked against the crystal floor of his throne room as he stepped forward, looking down at his wayward son and resting a giant crimson hand on his shoulderplate.

"Ahriman, my son." he began. "I will trust your word. But if you are lying, not even the power of Tzeentch will spare you from my wrath."

Ahriman retured Magnus's look.

"I understand, father. If I may ask...I would like to travel with you. To be a part of this...this magnificent event...I would rather die a thousand deaths than be absent." he said.

Magnus paused for a moment, thinking. Then, a smile cracked his ancient face. He stood, spreading his arms to the other assembled sorcerors.

"My sons! Ready the Rubrics. The daemons. The silver towers. The gors, the cultists, the spawn, all of it. We, the ensorcelled few, the scions of Tzeentch and the bringers of change..."

He extended his hand, and his fingers closed around a flaming guitar as it burned itself into existence. It was blue and pink and gold and red and yellow, all at once and yet none of them at all.

"...will rock."


	2. Chapter 2: Hard as Iron

"No."

"But-"

"No."

"He would-"

"No."

"There is-"

"No."

"The m-"

"No." barked Perturabo. "Remove yourself from my fortress in thirty seconds or I will remove your skull from your shoulders."

"Father, please! You have no reason to be this impetuous! It will bring ruin to the Imperium and you won't even-" Honsou began again.

"Twenty seconds." Perturabo interjected.

"The sheer volume of energy released could potentially open another Eye of Terror on-"

"Ten seconds."

Honsou's eyes practically bulged out of his skull. "Fulgrim has personally requested your presence at this-"

"In case you've forgotten, Fulgrim attempted to murder me ten thousand years ago, and that was before we even thought about reaching Terra. I will not be beckoned to his side like a dog simply because you think my presence there will usher in some new age of ruin and destruction. You sound like one of Lorgar's deranged preachers, screaming of the end of days and the death of the corpse on Terra. You are out of time, my son, and I am out of patience." Perturabo said, standing from his throne and closing his fist. The crackle of electricity heralded his power fist warming up. Honsou stood his ground, showing no fear. His superhuman mind ran though simulation after simulation of combat between the two. There were none in which Honsou survived.

"Father, if you do not do this, your brothers will forever mock you. Perturabo, the one who hid as the Imperium burned. The one who cowered behind his fortress walls as his brothers destroyed planets."

Perturabo stood for a moment, contemplating his son's words. He was a few steps away from Honsou. There was nothing else the Iron Warrior had thought of that could possibly convince his father to leave Medrengard. The Primarch's eyes peered down at his son, impossibly grim.

"Very well, Honsou." Perturabo said after what felt like an eternity. "I will go to Fulgrim's little gathering. When it is said and done, when his plot fails, I will kill him. As I should have done ten thousand years ago." He strode out of his command centre, his heavy armored footfalls clanking on the metal floor.

"Hear my, my children!" the Iron Lord shouted. "Ears will bleed and souls will scream. Let the music of the damned ring out, let the gods themselves listen. The Iron Warriors shall once again drag the weak into hell. And ready the Sphere of Iron." he finished. Heavy iron doors boomed shut behind him, leaving Honsou alone.

Honsou looked down at his data-slade, the vid-capture of Fulgrim's leering face paused. He shook his head.

"What fresh hell are you planning, Fulgrim?" he asked nobody, ending the silence. He had a feeling it was the last moment of quiet he would get for a long time.


	3. Chapter 3: Killing in the Name Of

"**FUCK YOU, FULGRIM!**" Angron screamed. He grabbed the hilt of his chainaxe, which was buried in the skull of a Bloodthirster. The Primarch smacked the data-slate out of Kharn's hand with the axe, and his armored boot crushed it underfoot. "**I'M NOT COMING TO YOUR STUPID SHITTY PARTY!**"  
Kharn narrowed his eyes. It hadn't been hard finding his gene-father. The planet of Kraskin IV was vast, but finding the arena constructed entirely out of the bones of Imperial Guardsmen wasn't difficult. Angron had opened a portal to the Warp inside the arena, and for the last two days had been slaughtering any daemon that exited the portal.  
"Father." Kharn began.  
"**SHUT YOUR FAGGOT FACE, KHARN!**" Angron screamed back, raising his axe and revving it.

"Fulgrim says-" Kharn began, before being interrupted by more chainaxe revving.  
"Fulgrim SAYS-" he tried again, growing agitated as Angron's axe drowned him out again.

"FULGRIM SAYS-" he shouted, his agitation turning into fury as his father cut him off once more. His Nails flared up, and he saw red.  
"**ALRIGHT YOU BIG RED COCKSUCKER, FULGRIM SAYS HE CAN ROCK HARDER THAN ANY WARRIOR OF KHORNE! UNLIKE YOU, I'M NOT GOING TO THROW A FUCKING TEMPER TANTRUM LIKE A BIG ANGRY FUCKING BABY! I'M GOING TO GO PROVE HIM WRONG! IF YOU DON'T GO, I WILL, YOU MASSIVE FUCKING PUSSY! FUCK YOU**!" Kharn screamed at his father.  
"**What the FUCK DID YOU JUST SAY TO ME, YOU LITTLE SHIT?! I'LL FUCKING KILL THAT SNAKE FAGGOT! FUCK YOU, FULGRIM! I'M GOING TO KICK YOUR FUCKING ASS!" **Angron yelled. His red hand reached for the corpse of the Bloodthirster, grabbing the haft of what the dead daemon held. It was a massive bass guitar, adorned in brass. Its strings were made from Bloodletter tendons, its body bearing the head of a massive axe. A daemonic skull was affixed to the head of the guitar.Angron threw back his head and laughed harshly.

"**Alright, Kharn. How far away is Fulgrim's little get-together?**" Angron asked, a bit calmer now.

"About a month, if the Warp is favorable." the Betrayer replied.

**"FUCK!" **screamed the Red Angel. **"THEN LET'S FUCKING GO, ALREADY!"**

Inside his helmet, Kharn sighed. It was going to be a long month.


End file.
